Cast in plaster and butyl rubber, the forms hangs like clenched organs, a thing once soft, now hardened by pressure. They twist in on themselves as though trying to remember a shape they no longer know. They are the residue of a system that mistook a human body for machinery. A tangle made by overwork, by stress folded into tension, by the slow corrosion of endurance. This is
what the industrial world leaves behind: Not scars, but knots; tight and unrelenting. These sculptural works are the moment the body confesses what the mind tried to ignore. A quiet monument to organs taught to endure what they were never meant to bear. These are the beating hearts of aftermath of late-capitlist systemic governance.